The Heretic Bard
by Tear-Storming Sea
Summary: The Spashley version of one of my favorite poems. It's a love ballad. Ashley's the "heretic bard" and Spencer is the bishop's daughter. It's not one of those poems you have to ponder for years unless you really want to. Don't run away.


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**Hello,**

**Shattered Last Summer is still happening. I've finished the next chapter, but I 'm sorting out what happens in the chapter after that. Hopefully with this three-day weekend it'll be done. Thank God for Columbus day. I was at the Dodge Poetry Festival in Newark New Jersey. I really liked Amiri Baraka. You should search Amiri Baraka Heathens. It's funny, but there's another layer to it. I didn't particulary like Sharon Olds, but she has a certain ode that was just crazy. It was entitled "Ode to the Hymen". I'll leave you to speculate the rest.**

**Anyways, this is my Spashlified version of a poem. I'll name the poem at the bottom. I want to know if you can tell which stanzas were purely mine and which ones are simply revised and how you could tell. I kept to the rythym and rhyme scheme as best as could. Also, did you understand the story and the characters?**

**I didn't just plug in names. My version is two pages longer than the original. The most difficult part was all the pronouns being "She" or "her", but with any luck you'll be able to tell who's who. I know that this is far from perfect (I mean , Heretic Bard?) so any suggestions are welcome. I had a lot of fun doing this and would like to do it again, so any good love ballads you know of would be nice. Also (. . . . ) are indents because this formatting sucks.**

**__****__****__**Sorry if I sound kind of demanding.

**Please, please review.**

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**The Heretic Bard**

PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,  
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
And the heretic bard came riding—  
. . . . Riding—riding—  
The heretic bard came riding, up to the cathedral door.

II

She'd stormy umber locks curled loosely, a string of silver 'neath her chin,  
A coat of the inky velvet had been passed down from long dead kin;  
They fitted with never a wrinkle: her boots were up to the thigh!  
And she rode with a tarnished twinkle,  
. . . . Her wooden flute a-twinkle,  
Her very skin a-twinkle, under the tarnished sky.

III

Over the cobbles she clattered and clashed in the cathedral yard,  
And she tapped with her flute on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;  
She sang tenderly to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the bishop's blue-eyed daughter,  
. . . . Spencer, the archbishop's daughter,  
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her dusk gold hair.

IV

They greeted each other eagerly; through rust love shines true.  
Though worn away by the wearying world their hope forever renews.  
She played a tune from the saddle, that told of a final escape  
As Spencer looked from above,  
. . . . Smiled and praised from above,  
With mirroring smiles they gazed, and missed the sinister shape.

V

And dark in the cathedral yard, a chapel-wicket creaked  
Where Aiden the acolyte listened; his face was strong and sleek;  
His eyes were craters of envy, his hair like black moulded hay,  
. . . . For he loved the bishop's daughter,  
The bishop's red-lipped daughter,  
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the minstrel say—

VI

"One kiss, my fairest angel, we gather again to-night,  
But I shall be back to sing for thee before the morning light;  
Yet, if they uncover our meeting, and hassle me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,  
. . . . Watch for me by moonlight,  
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VII

She rose upright in the stirrups; she scarce could reach her hand,  
Spencer loosened her hair i' the casement, warmer than sun-kissed sand.  
The gold cascade of perfume tumbled over the singer's breast;  
And she kissed its waves in the moonlight,  
. . . . (Oh, sweet, gold waves in the moonlight!)  
Then she tugged at her rein in the moonlight, and trotted away to the West.

PART TWO

I

The bard rode through the moonlight, crooning to her dusty nag,  
They travelled for almost an hour before they reached the crag.  
There the minstrel dismounted, and led her mount to the South,  
And the heretic bard went striding  
. . . . Striding—striding—  
The heretic bard went striding, in through the dark sylvan mouth.

II

Into the cool green grove she strode, leaving her nag at the trees.  
Dark skin lit orange by the light of the fire, orange as dying leaves.  
She gathered up all the players, as the music finally commenced,  
And every apostate was dancing,  
. . . . Every star in the sky was dancing,  
She swayed to the music smoothly, and sang to their gloomy laments.

III

Languidly the melody gentled, and the fiddles whispered no more.  
One by one victims stepped forth, and hesitantly took the floor.  
They were young women, fair and fine, and ancient, crotchety men,  
But all were bound by tyranny,  
. . . . Blighted by the claws of tyranny,  
United to help and comfort each other in the secreted glen.

IV

The moon was cloaked by a tenebrous cloud; the apostates heard a shout,  
A holy troop had blocked the valley, and suddenly began the rout.  
A man grabbed the bard brutally, he'd hair of rotting hay,  
But the bard knifed his face,  
. . . . He clutched at his bloodied face,  
While the heretic bard wriggled free, and disappeared into the fray.

V

Atop her white steed on the hill, the saint saw with narrowed eyes,  
Her informant fall in the moonlight, and watched him as he dies.  
She dug her spurs in her steed, and galloped away to her home,  
Calling more troops as she rode,  
. . . . Cursing her daughter as she rode,  
A dogmatist in mind and soul, she left only a trail of loam.

PART THREE

I

The bard came not in the dawning; she did not come at noon;  
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,  
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,  
A holy troop came marching—  
. . . . Marching—marching—  
Saint Paula's men came matching, up to the cathedral door.

II

They said no word to the bishop, they saluted his wife instead,  
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;  
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  
There was death at every window;  
. . . . And hell at one dark window;  
For Spencer could see, through her casement, the road that she would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;  
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!  
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.  
She heard her lover say—  
. . . . Look for me by moonlight;  
. . . . . . . . Watch for me by moonlight;  
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!  
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,  
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,  
. . . . Cold, on the stroke of midnight,  
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!  
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,  
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;  
. . . . Blank and bare in the moonlight;  
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;  
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf? Did they did not hear?  
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,  
The heretic bard came riding,  
. . . . Riding, riding!  
The soldiers looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!  
Nearer she came and nearer! Spencer's face was like a light!  
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,  
. . . . Her musket shattered the moonlight,  
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned her—with her death.

PART FOUR

I

She heard the crack of the musket; she fled back to the West.  
Mounted on a brand-new horse, she made no stop for rest.  
Her horse began to lather, her legs dully ached.  
The heretic bard fell sleeping,  
. . . . Sleeping—sleeping—  
The heretic bard lay sleeping, her final peace before she waked.

II

In her flight from the startling gunshot, she did not know who stood  
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!  
In the dawn the singer heard it, her face grew grey to hear  
How Spencer, the bishop's daughter,  
. . . . The archbishop's blue-eyed daughter,  
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

III

Back, she spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,  
With the white road smoking behind her and her knife brandished high!  
Blood-red were her spurs i' the golden noon; dark-stained her velvet coat,  
When they shot her down on the highway,  
. . . . Down like a dog on the highway,  
And she lay in her blood on the highway, with the string of silver 'round her throat.

IV

When they seized her injured body, she did not try to fight.  
With tears streaking down her face, she allowed the judge to write  
"Guilty of rape and treason. Sentenced to burning at the stake."  
She was chained in the dankest dungeon,  
. . . . Trapped in the deepest dungeon,  
Pointlessly restrained in the cell, for she saw no reason to escape.

V

That noon the sun shone fatefully, its pounding rays harsh and bright.  
She was bound to the pole in the center, while townsfolk laughed with delight.  
The saint withheld a smile, maintained her dignified air,  
An air as somber as lemons are sweet,  
. . . . The bard's thoughts were far from sweet,  
As she readied to die, far from the moon, under the sun's cold glare.

VI

They scattered the oil about her; the fire had its own hungry gleam,  
The singer writhed agony, her voice now a fractured scream.  
Suddenly the sky blackened, the sun had been eclipsed!  
The townsfolk joined her screaming,  
. . . . Even the moon was screaming,  
As she died in the inferno screaming, "Spencer!" was wrenched from her lips.

VII

And still of a autumn's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,  
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
A heretic bard comes riding—  
. . . . Riding—riding—  
A heretic bard comes riding, up to the cathedral door.

VIII

Over the cobbles she clatters and clangs in the cathedral yard;  
She taps with her flute on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;  
She sings tenderly to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the bishop's blue-eyed daughter,  
. . . . Spencer, the archbishop's daughter,  
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her dusk gold hair.

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The original poem was "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes. I always thought the plot was a bit cheesy, but I loved the way it sounded. If you didn't read the author's note at the beginning please do and review. I want to know if it was any good.


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